


This is Your Requiem

by WerewolvesAreReal



Category: Temeraire - Naomi Novik
Genre: AU Post-Book 1: His Majesty's Dragon, Angst, Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Istanbul, M/M, Murder, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2016-05-18
Packaged: 2018-06-09 07:12:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6895045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WerewolvesAreReal/pseuds/WerewolvesAreReal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Temeraire is dead. The entire country knows his name after the Battle of Dover, and now Temeraire is dead.<br/>“Well,” says Admiral Croft, “At least you can join the navy again, eh, Captain?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	This is Your Requiem

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. All non-English was done with Google translate because I can't speak aaaanything, so I apologize preemptively for any mistakes.  
> 2\. I'm always worried about how I write Tharkay because I'm not sure I have his voice down – any comments would be helpful, because I'm hoping to write some more fics featuring him!

What Laurence will always remember most is that Temeraire is happy and hopeful at the end. He has saved the day, saved all of England – why should he not be happy?

Napoleon tries to send fifty-thousand men over the Channel, a dubious but shockingly possible proposition with the use of his dragon-transports. It is Temeraire, Temeraire and his strange and shocking roar that can crack wood and bone, which finally destroys the threat. Multiple transports are destroyed; French dragons fall from the air; the majority of the transports flee to France.

And all the remaining dragons, the entire escort for the soldiers, converge upon Temeraire at once.

A Pecheur-Reye comes from behind and slashes at his tail. Before Temeraire can properly twist around two little Pou-de-Ciels attack his wings and a Garde-de-Lyon starts scrabbling for his stomach. Multiple lightweights spread themselves out among the bulk of his belly, and soon the tiny scarlet dragons are joined by a Pascal's Blue.

And while Temeraire is writhing away, crying his pain and outrage, a Defendeur Brave bears down from above. Blood streams from the heavy-weight's eyes; she is one of the dragons Temeraire injured with his roar.

Somewhere on Temeraire's back Granby yells “' _Ware boarders!”_ but Laurence is caught staring at the black, oozing line across Temeraire's neck.

He catches a glimpse of Lily's distinct purple and yellow legs tearing at one of the light-weights, a flash of her baleful yellow eyes through the chaotic mess of dragons. The other British dragons descend en-masse to try and help, but Temeraire is being pulled lower toward the ground, plummeting at a horrible speed.

Suddenly the Defendeur-Brave unlatches himself from Temeraire and pulls away, diving like a stone only to pull up and follow after the distant line of the French transports. The smaller dragons follow him like a flock of twittering birds. Weak cheers arise from Temeraire's crew. Laurence only puts his hand on the dragon's neck.

“Keep flying,” he says. His voice is too quiet - he cannot bear to speak louder. “Keep flying, you must - “

Temeraire shudders bodily, his head drooping with effort. “Oh,” he says, faintly surprised. At the sound most of his crew falls silent as well.

“Maximus,” Granby says to someone. “You, signal Maximus, damn you – he cannot fly with that wing – We must get him to the covert - “

“The ground,” Laurence says.

“He will not get off the ground again if we let him down, Laurence - “

“He will _not_ get off the ground again.” Laurence watches the black splatters of blood washing from Temeraire's neck. Another wound gapes from his shoulder, a terrible cracking gash webbing out in every direction. “It is quite fine, Temeraire – set down as soon as you are over land.”

“Oh, thank you,” Temeraire murmurs. He is barely gliding and lists badly sideways.

Granby comes up from behind Laurence. He knows the moment when the lieutenant sees what he sees. _“Keynes!”_

Laurence clutches convulsively at the harness. Maximus swoops down to attempt to maneuver beneath Temeraire. “Well, are you ready?” Berkley calls.

Granby pauses. When Laurence makes no answer he stands up to make arrangements himself.

“Just a little longer,” Laurence says.

“We won the battle, did we not?”

“You won the day for us – you were most excellent, Temeraire. You saved England.”

“That is good.” Temeraire suddenly drops a dozen meters. Maximus, preparing to fly in under him, veers away in surprise.

“Just a moment more - Dear, you must fly straight - “

Temeraire sighs slowly, but he flaps his wings and does.

Temeraire released a pained noise when the Regal Copper finally managed to slot himself in place. But he continues to fly awkwardly, keeping his wings feebly extended as Maximus bears the brunt of his weight.

This close Berkley's voice is perfectly audible. “Why the shore?” Laurence can hear him demanding. “Are you mad, Granby?” Then Berkley stops, and Laurence closes his eyes.

Despite the difficulties it is not a distant flight. They set down and Temeraire practically falls forward when deprived of Maximus' support. They are a fair distance from the water but the scent of the sea is heavy in the air, curling crisply to cover the iron edge of dragon-blood.

Temeraire leans sideways against the dirt, bracing himself with his shoulders, as his crew departs hastily. Then he falls forward with his sides heaving. Laurence comes up next to his head and the great jaws smeared with blood.

One blue eye flicks open to watch him, then closes. “Pray tell Keynes to stop, to stop,” Temeraire rumbles, and then his body shudders again. “Laurence - “

The dragon-surgeon is clambering over Temeraire's neck with his supplies. “Dear, if there is anything to be done -

“Laurence.”

Laufence pauses.

He gets up to speak with Keynes. “Tell me honestly – is there any hope? The slightest hope.”

The surgeon pauses. His usual acerbic remarks don't arise. “In such cases it is always uncertain – the resiliency of dragons - “

Laurence looks at him.

“...No. I am sorry.” The man seems sincere.

The crew is staying back, some of them frantically, futilely attending to Temeraire's lesser wounds. Berkley and Granby hover nearby in easy calling range. Laurence does not look at them. Maximus curls near to peer at Temeraire as he walks back. “Cheer up – that roar was very impressive,” the Regal Copper encourages. “Even if you are not so _very_ big, you are quite something now.”

“The greatest dragon in the world,” Laurence says. “No one will forget this, Temeraire. And I – I will never forget - “

Temeraire turns his head and looks at him.

Laurence pauses. The words catch in his throat, a thousand sentiments he does not know how to say.

“Laurence, I am glad it was you,” Temeraire says, and closes his eyes.

He does not open them again.

Laurence rests his forehead against the dragon's muzzle. He breathes in great gulps of air and holds on to the dragon's still body as the world falls away around him.

* * *

 

“Well,” says Admiral Croft, “At least you can join the navy again, eh, Captain?”

Standing in his green coat, Laurence stares frozen at the Admiral as Granby hisses a sharp breath next to him.

“A pity to lose a heavy-weight, but I suppose that's what eggs are for,” the Admiral continues cheerfully. “After today, it shouldn't be hard to get you reinstated, eh - “

“Sir,” says Laurence quietly. “It would be best for you to stop talking.”

Croft stares at him, surprised, and Granby seems to visibly relax. Laurence stares at a spot over the Admiral's head. He would like to feel angry; it would be a relief to feel angry. He has not felt anything for a day or more, except that he seems permanently cold.

“We will be returning to Dover for orders,” Granby says firmly, glancing at him one more time. “ - With Captain Little. The rest of our formation is remaining to guard the Channel.”

Catherine, Little, or even Berkley should be here to speak with the Admiral. But they are attending to their dragons or crews in the wake of the battle, and Laurence -

Laurence volunteered. Laurence needs the distraction.

* * *

 

Little is a quiet captain and not a man Laurence has spoken with at length. But he is speaking frequently with Granby near Immortalis' neck; they sit and glance back at Laurence as they talk, the topic of their conversation plainly apparent.

In his hands he clutches a heavy, almost garish golden chain. It would droop around a man's neck like something the old Egyptian pharaohs wore; on a dragon it once seemed small. Impossibly fragile and easy to twine between the links of a harness...

He knows why Granby has been elected to accompany him to the covert even though most of Temeraire's crew have been divided among the other dragons for transport. He knows why, now that Granby is momentarily distracted, an ensign is shadowing him on Immortalis' back and pretending at careful nonchalance. He knows why she grows tense when he stares too long and hard into the horizon – when he stares down, down the long drop below the Yellow Reaper's body.

They reach Dover covert within an hour. Several other captains have already settled in with their dragons, and they quiet as Little, Laurence, and Granby pass. Little departs. When they arrive at Admiral Lenton's office the man looks up from his desk and says, “Gods, Laurence, I am sorry.”

Laurence says nothing. Granby launches into a report.

After a few minutes of listening Lenton waves him to be quiet. “Yes; it is nothing I have not heard elsewhere. That ability marks him as a Celestial, not an Imperial,” Lenton tells Laurence. “Which makes no difference now, of course; I am damned sorry,” he says again.

Then, awkwardly, he tells Laurence the rest.

“Of course you will always have a place here,” he says. “Navy-officer or not, you are an aviator now – and clearly good with heavy-weights – a proper posting - “

With difficulty, he registers after a few minutes that Lenton wants to put him with another heavy-weight. Perhaps a Longwing, Lenton offers; he has good experience as Lily's wingmate, and that is valuable. But the thought repulses as much as it compels. Laurence cannot imagine not working with dragons. He cannot imagine working with any dragon but Temeraire.

“I thank you,” he interrupts at last. “But I cannot – I must refuse. I will leave the Corps.”

Granby turns away. Lenton looks at him carefully, evenly, and then only nods. “You are free to reconsider, Captain,” he says.”I don't want you to make any hasty decisions. Take some time to yourself, go home for awhile, maybe – let us know if you change your mind.”

Laurence bows his head. But his resolution is firm.

He has a very different plan in mind.

* * *

 

He stumbles across Captain Roland after finally fending off Granby with one excuse after another. She takes one look at him and grabs his arm.

He does not protest to the man-handling even when she drags him bodily into the officers' quarters and then into her room. She presses him into a chair and finds a bottle of wine. Pauses, pours out a glass, looks at him, and then just hands him the bottle.

Some days, Laurence feels he could love Jane Roland.

She opens her mouth. He preempts her by asking, “Is Excidium well?”

Jane flinches. “Yes. Some scratches – he will do fine.” She glances almost neurotically at the door, though; in any other circumstances she would be with the Longwing right now. Jane quickly downs her own glass. “I will not ask how you are. But – Laurence, what are you going to do?”

This is the plainest question he has had yet. Laurence takes a deep breath. It feels like the air is battering against his lungs, cracking his throat like splintered wood. “I will leave.”

“Where will you go?”

“I will follow Napoleon.”

Roland jerks with shock. Laurence continues. “I will go wherever he is fighting – he does not always fight in England, and I do not need to be a member of any part of His Majesty's Military to aid the militia of England, or Austria, Russia, or any other of our allies who might need aid. I will travel and fight Napoleon wherever he goes.”

“You are mad,” says Roland; but this time the words are helpless. Laurence has quite enough capital to do what he says.

“He has started this war. I will see it finished.”

“Good god, you cannot mean it – you will get yourself killed - “

“Then I will get myself killed,” he says flatly. “What would you do, Jane, if Excidium died?”

Jane tightens her lips and does not answer.

“I would be glad if you would wish me well, and no more.”

“...I will do you better, damn you,” she says. “If you are truly determined to die, you may do some good for us while you are at it. Come with me.”

She takes him back to Lenton, who is no more pleased with Laurence's plan. Then Roland suggests, “He might take the message to Instanbul for us, Sir – I would trust him more than the East India Company, and we can skip the negotiations and fuss.”

Lenton frowns, clearly not pleased with the thought. “I suppose,” he says grudgingly. “And it would coincide with your plans, Captain, to go there – at least if you approach from the South, and do not care to traipse straight through the Empire's allied states. There is talk of fighting by Austria and Prussia, so that is the place to be. That route would not be so out of your way.”

“What would you have me do?”

“We need a message taken to a the British ambassador, a private and important matter regarding the matter of several dragon-eggs we are buying from the Sultan - “

This, the duty and the instructions, is a familiar rhythm. Laurence listens and nods and has accepted the duty in his mind even before Lenton finishes speaking. “I will do it,” he says at once. “Immediately.”

“No, gods, we are not sending you out today,” Lenton says. “There is no need for it – take a rest, Captain, I do mean that. You know there is to be an event to honor the aviators – a gathering - “

“A celebration,” Laurence says. Lenton has the grace to wince. “I will leave as soon as the message can be prepared.”

There are no more objections.

* * *

 

There are a few relatively easy and common routes to Turkey, but Laurence can take none of them. Traveling by ship or caravan the whole way is quite impossible if he wishes to remain undetected; traveling by air...

He decides to take a ship as far as Gibraltar, which should not prove strange enough to be worthy of attention, and from there travel overland by the African coast. Past the British port the sea itself will serve as a sufficient reference point considering his destination. From there it should not prove difficult to head North to Turkey and no one should note his passage, but it is wholly too dangerous to take a ship past both France and Italy under current conditions. The message may never arrive.

He sets out for the port of Dover. It is wholly disconcerting to try to find sea-passage through a third party. After years as a naval crewman, and then a captain, he has always sailed on ships as an officer or the master of a vessel. With a dragon he could be even more certain of complete liberty, and any necessary sea-side arrangements would surely be made by his superiors. Lenton would doubtlessly to able to access the shipping manifests, but Laurence has no interest in prevailing upon him again or of traveling through the conspicuous navy. He begins by finding merchanters and questioning the captains.

The _Quick Knife_ and _Eye of Medusa_ are both headed toward northern Spain; the _Ivy_ is bound for Ireland.

He is surprised to find a familiar face with his fourth prospect.

“Will Laurence!” Captain Gerry Stuart bellows. He is standing on the docking beside his ship, by all appearances inspecting the hull, so there is nothing to prevent him from bounding forward and shaking Laurence's hand with great vigor. “I heard we have you and your excellent dragon to thank for our skins at the Battle of Dover. Now, what are you doing at port?”

Laurence extracts his hand with difficulty. “I am searching for likely transport to Gibraltar.”

“Surely you mean a dragon-transport? You won't find that here – and where is that great beast of yours?” Stuart looks around expectantly as though Temeraire might drop in between the _Ivy_ and _Quick Knife._

Laurence pauses. “As you said,” he says. “He fought very well at the battle; I suppose the papers reported nothing else.”

Stuart blinks at him; then his eyes widen. “Oh! Oh, I – damn. I am sorry, Will.” And he sounds it.

Laurence tugs at his neckcloth, staring straight ahead, and nods stiffly.

Stuart still seems thrown. “ - Where are you bound – Gibraltar? Yes, that would work.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“That is – we cannot bear you to Gibraltar, no; but we are bound for Portugal and near to Spain. I suppose it'd be damn odd for you, coming aboard a ship of the line as a guest, but we will take you as far as Faro gladly and from there I am sure you can find another ship easily enough.”

Laurence truly needs to go across the shore from Gibraltar, not to the base itself. Indeed, Faro might more suit the purposes of discretion. He had not wanted to use the navy, but - “I would be grateful for the hospitality.”

“Don't get stiff with me, now. Come along, then, and tell me that sad sack you carry is not all your luggage - “

* * *

 

Laurence's arrival seems to have been fortuitous. The _HMS Vanguard_ sails with the tide just two days later under a clear sky and favorable winds, though the latter weakens and pulls enough to make Stuart uneasy.

After only the first day he becomes impatient enough to demand to be put to work. Something in his face makes Stuart agree, though it is plain that the officers and crew do not know what to think about working the sails next to a distinguished naval-captain, or an aviator-captain with no dragon. Laurence cannot manage to care for their reactions.

“Sir, there's a tear in the top of the ratlines.” A sailor gestures upward, speaking to the second lieutenant. “It'd be dangerous to get near the shroud up there.”

“Repair it at once, then,” comes the expected order, and Laurence walks near to interrupt,

“I will do it.”

The lieutenant glances at him – looks again. “Sir? I - “ he trails off. “...Yes, Sir. As you like.”

Which is how he ends up climbing the ratlines hand-over-hand again like when he was a young midshipman. The ropes bite into his fingers, but even the day's intemperate winds can't tug at him like the concentrated rush that comes from plummeting half a mile down straight through the open sky.

He finishes the repairs quickly and signals as much to the expectant lieutenant below. Then he leans against the ropes and stares out against the ocean.

Once – it seems long ago, now, but in truth it was perhaps only a year previous – he flew every day over waters like this. The dragons at the covert do not fish enough; there is a crime in that. Temeraire loved the water. Temeraire was born to the water just as much as Laurence.

He looks down eventually – back down to the rolling deck, the familiar shape of the _Vanguard._ Stuart is standing on the quarterdeck and frowning at him.

The ropes shudder in the wind and for a second – just an instant – it almost feels like he's flying.

* * *

 

“There is very little to do in Faro, of course,” Lieutenant Perkins says. “Unless one is interested in ships, and sailing, and more ships; which of course one should be, but there is quite enough of that on the ocean.”

“Why are you journeying there, Captain Laurence, if I may ask?” another lieutenant grabs the opening. They are seated around the captain's table for dinner, not for the first time on this voyage, and a light round of wine seems to have mellowed their ongoing unease of him.

“I do not intend to end my travels in Portugal; I will go forward to perhaps Austria, or wherever else I hear Napoleon's armies are fighting. I intend to join the battles there.”

“Fighting?” This seems to surprise even Stuart. “Good god, on land, Will? Are you committed to making captain in every branch of the service?”

“That I am not,” Laurence can answer. “I will not be joining Britain's official forces, or even her militias; I intend to follow wherever the fighting leads, and that includes those places where His Majesty's armies may decline to follow.”

This declaration brings on a small pause.

“Well,” starts Midshipman Wallace. He clears his throat. The midshipman is young, his coat so large the collar nearly scraps his ears; he flushes when his small utterance draws all eyes his way. “Well,” he says again, now forced to speak. “That is bold, Captain.”

“It is... something,” Stuart says at length.

The rest of the dinner passes in awkward silence.

_____________________________

The sail is spotted just four days into the voyage. “Sailing right on our course, Captain,” claims the fresh-faced boy in the top. “South-southwest. Their masts are shorter, I don't think they've seen us yet.”

“Very good,” Stuart says. “Mr. Perkins, trim the mainsail. We'll stay well back for an hour or two, I think – night is almost upon us. Wallace, now, keep an eye on them up there.”

“Aye, Sir!”

Thatches of mist roll in as the night lengthens. Laurence stays on deck as Stuart sends a man below to quiet the crew. Soon the ship sails in near-silence arrowing through the water smooth and black.

Stuart approaches him after the boatswain has struck the first bell. “The wind is slow, and we're close enough to send in boats; do you care to join a boarding party, Will? I do not expect you to feel obliged - “

“Of course,” is Laurence's immediate response. Stuart pauses to eye him warily, but nods.

They send out two launches. Laurence is in command of one of them. The borrowed pistol feels familiar in his hand, and he waits with detached focus as his small group strokes their oars through the water in careful synchronicity. Water laps gently at the dipping paddles and moonlight gleams off the boat's burnished wood.

Rappelling up an enemy ship cannot be done in complete silence. Tiny thuds punctuate the darkness, and from downwind small echoes tell Laurence that the other launch is progressing as well. No alarm yet, though. “Ready with your guns,” he orders lowly. Then he starts to climb.

One men, then two, then three are behind him on the rope; three more are by his side on a second rope hanging tight. His gun sways heavy in his pocket. Laurence breathes quietly through his nostrils. He peers above the top of the wooden rail – and comes face-to-face with a startled French watchmen.

A startled yell is all the signal the English sailors get; it's all they need. With one roar they start to surge up the ropes, and Laurence pulls himself aboard and draws his gun in one motion.

He shoots down two men before they can react. “You four, stand on either side of the stairs,” he orders sharply as more seamen climb onto the deck. A few men bolt to the doorway leading belowdecks and stand ready.

“Sir,” a midshipman hisses. What was his name? “The other launch – they are not coming - “

“Circle around and see what has happened.” The young man vanishes as enemy sailors finally start to surge to the deck.

The first wave are shot down or cut from behind. But the press of bodies is relentless, and men burst upward like beetles from a jar, bleeding shockingly across the deck as they flail toward the British. “Guard the ropes,” Laurence orders, glancing back; two men still need to climb aboard. Then he has to exchange his pistol for a sword for the fighting.

His hands are sore and water-slick from the boat's oars, scratched from the rough rope. His sword rings with the first hit of an enemy knife, poor as the weapon is; it is only pure luck and the other man's clear inexperience that lets him make a maiming blow and walk forward.

The fighting gets easier rather than harder when his hands adapt to the sword-hilt and his arms remember the rhythm of fighting on a ship. Screams rise to the air and mingle with curses. Laurence does not add to the cacophony.

Finally the other English sailors start surging from the opposite side of the ship and add to the chaos. The surprise of their appearance pins in the French. Laurence uses the opportunity to order his men forward and press on.

One of his men is protesting, “Sir, you cannot!” but they do not elaborate, so Laurence ignores the cry.

The French captain is making a desperate stand by the base of the shrouds. Laurence hacks his way forward with two other men by his side (one of them cursing up a steady storm) and he disarms the captain himself with a final, brutal thrust that just seems to leave the foreign officer bewildered. He levels his blade.

“Yield,” Laurence says flatly.

The captain stares at him, plainly aghast.

He repeats the demand.

“...Oui,” the captain says at last. “...Bon dieu!” He calls his men off, still shooting Laurence bewildered glances.

The fighting slows to a groaning halt.

“Captain?” It takes a moment to register that this address is meant for him; the same midshipman from earlier, now blood-smeared across the shoulder, is staring at Laurence nearby.

“Yes, are you quite well, Mr. Milburn? What are our losses?”

Instead of answering, the boy asks, “Are _you_ well, Sir?”

Laurence frowns.

Then he becomes aware of a throbbing sensation in his chest. And shoulder. And – Laurence looks down and touches his neck, with faint surprise, as his fingers enter a bloody gash that arcs halfway to his head.

His whole front is charred and slick, actually. Charred – he does not remember a bomb -

“Oh, no,” Laurence says, and repeats it again when Mr. Milburn has to lunge forward to steady him; “ - I am afraid I am not at all well.”

* * *

 

The voyage of the _HMS Vanguard_ has undergone a slight detour to make repairs and account for her new prisoners. Laurence has always healed well, but his wound still troubles him weeks later.

Stuart requests to speak with him in his private cabin when they approach Faro. Laurence of course must oblige, and he takes his best coat with him – the one not bloodied into rags. Underneath it bandages chafe at his ribs and more snake up to wrap around the delicate skin of his still-healing throat. Laurence stands straight but cannot refrain from wincing when he comes to a stop in front of Stuart. The captain notices.

“Damned foolishness,” the man says, like he is a midshipman and not a fellow officer. “Laurence, what have you been thinking recently? I have known you to be bold but never rash.” It is a late reprimand to something they have not dared address yet, for all the awkwardness still between them.

“You have not known me for years, Gerry,” comes the weary answer. Laurence does not try to defend himself.

But Stuart is not interested, it seems, in discussing his actions on the French ship. “You still mean to do it – to go to Austria, to follow Napoleon.”

“Yes. As long as I can walk, yes.”

“Let us hold to the notion that you can do it then,” Stuart says. “Trail after the French armies like a lovesick madman peeling off their excess soldiers one by one – let us ignore how little you can do alone – what is the outcome you are hoping for? The war will not last forever. Tell me, Will, what you will do when the war is over – when France surrenders, or Bonaparte dies, or a treaty is made, whatever might happen...”

Laurence says nothing.

“You do not want that, I think,” Stuart says. “You did once, but not now. Or perhaps – perhaps you do not think you will live long enough to see it - “

Laurence downs the rest of his wine and sets down his glass. “I must apologize, Captain,” he says flatly. He turns and begins to walk. “I believe I will have an early night.”

“Is a dragon worth this much?” Stuart asks, and Laurence pauses on his way out the door.

For a moment he just hovers there on the threshold. Then he says, low and wretchedly, _“Yes.”_

______________________________

The French ship is surveyed as she goes into the port of Faro. She makes a good prize, but, “She's outfitted more like a pirate than a Frenchie,” someone says, and it feels like the air has left Laurence's lungs.

“Oh shush, like you've seen a real pirate,” another man scoffs. Laurence stands stiff and still as the two move on.

“I beg your pardon, Sir; are you well?”

“Yes, thank you.” Laurence stares through the young carpenter that has stopped him. The man hovers uncertainly, touches his head in salute, then hurries on. He turns and stumbles to his own cabin; he cannot account for the pounding of his own heart.

Temeraire wanted to be a pirate. Temeraire asked, once, why they needed to fight for England at all – was there nothing else they could do?

Laurence had said no. Laurence had led him like a lamb to the slaughter -

“Why, he's so long from the ocean he's seasick,” someone says a few minutes later.

“No, no, it was the cooking last night; bad meat and I swear to you we'll all be dead soon, I swear to you - “

* * *

 

Captain Stuart tugs at his cravat. It is an entirely self-conscious gesture. Laurence reaches up. Touches his neck. He has been missing his own cravat for awhile now, but there is a gaudy gold chain around his neck in its place. He touches this instead and fingers the individual links of metal.

Stuart says “I am sorry to see you go, Laurence,” which is mostly a lie. Not entirely, though. Laurence suspects that Stuart is rightly concerned about him; he also suspects, not without reason, that the captain is guiltily relieved to see him gone. “If you have need of anything else - “

“I could not think to presume on you further, Gerry. You have done more than I could have asked, and I thank you.” Laurence inclines his head perhaps a bit too stiffly. His mind is already far away, looking past Gerry to the other many merchant vessels in Faro.

“If you are certain.”

“Safe passage.”

* * *

 

Tetouan is not a pleasant or pretty city. For Laurence's purposes it does not need to be. He needs only a night's rest and some proper supplies before he can be away. He suspects he will be traveling for several months by foot, and he doesn't know if buying a horse would prove wise or disastrous in this unknown country where it may prove difficult to find water. At last he decides against it.

He rests at night in the _Honeytree Inn,_ a small and rather decrepit place on the east part of port. The ground seems to sway under his bed with echoes of the sea, or perhaps the wind; but he will never know the latter again. That has been taken from him.

He wakes to find a hand pulling at his neck.

Laurence lashes out with his foot and meets resistance. Someone doubles over and he finds the chance to roll away, fumbling for the sword on his bedside table as he does so. In the same second he reaches up with his left hand to touch his neck. The gold chain is missing.

The thief has fallen but scrambles to stand, scrambles to escape. Laurence does not provide this chance. Gold spills in front of the darkness, in front of his sword; it blots out the red that blooms when he cuts down the stranger and the man falls still on the ground.

Laurence leaves the Inn early, covered in darkness, and he touches the stained chain around his neck again and again as the first light creeps up in the East.

* * *

 

Laurence was being honest when he told Stuart that he predicted overland travel would be safer than travel by sea. The Mediterannean lies largely under the control of the French Empire, but the countries and sultanates along the north of Africa mostly hold no love for Napoleon Bonaparte. His disastrous Egyptian campaign embittered him to that region which once welcomed trade with the French, and the Egyptians have since been staunch allies of the English... if not always enthusiastic ones.

Still, there are long stretches of land between Tetouan and Egypt, Egypt and Istanbul. Many of the nations in between have more dubious allegiances, and the individual cities are as different as rain.

“I suppose that you are here to cart opium,” says the first man Laurence meets outside Amtar.

“...No?” Laurence says warily.

“Yes you are,” is the flat reply. “Do not lie to me; all you men from the West come to trade opium.”

“I beg your pardon; I am only traveling through.”

“Ha,” is the answer to this. “You are traveling to East _to arrange_ opium sales, then; get out, get out, or I will have you arrested and your dirty hand cut off - !”

Laurence leaves quickly.

He tries to stay away from cities. Walking near the coast offers a continuous view of the sea. Small islands dot the waters and seagulls flock the shores. Normally he keeps to firm ground, but sometimes he goes to the edge of the water-line and walks along the sand. His footsteps sink and disappear along the silt, vanishing in each new wave as though he never existed at all.

Captain Laurence arrives in Egypt after two months. He has already faced deserts, but it surprises him to be buffeted by winds and deprivation along the coast. Going inland for freshwater becomes a certain torture. Here, in this English-allied nation, he dares make contact with one of the cities for news of the war.

And there _is_ news. A defeat – disastrous, devastating – at Austerlitz. Austria is no longer in the war, Laurence is told; Austria has been defeated.

But where does he go if not to Austria? Istanbul, still; he will need to determine a new course after.

The encounter leaves a new question though – the one already prompted by Captain Stewart weeks before. If the war ends, what will he do? Say it ends right now – a peace is declared, perhaps, absurd and impossible as that thought might be – would he simply stop, give up, go home?

No. Laurence does not pause in his steps. Over the weeks his legs have learned this rhythm, and he walks swiftly and without hesitation. He will keep fighting. He will fight – someone. The one responsible for Temeraire's death.

The _one_ -

* * *

 

“I did not expect anyone so soon,” says the British Ambassador “Yes, the papers are in order; everything has been authorized. I am grateful, Mr. Laurence. Once we get the last of the payment delivered the egg is ours at last. A true coup for Britain – our own firebreather.”

“It is excellent news,” says Laurence evenly.

“You are an aviator?” The ambassador presses cheerfully. “I am sure you might appreciate the opportunity...”

“I was an aviator,” Laurence says.

“Oh?”

“I am staying in the _Mavi Ejderha_ _Inn_ if you have need of anything else, Ambassador,” Laurence says flatly. “I expect I shall be in town a few more nights.”

“Of course; again, I am grateful.”

Aside from the British ambassador few people in the city speak English, and Laurence himself, unfortunately, has no skill whatsoever with the local language. He is grateful to find a banker - a Mr. Avraam Maden - who will accept his note from the British bank and convert local currency for him. It eases matters tremendously.

“I know a man, I think, who will make your stay easier,” the banker adds as Laurence prepares to leave him. “A Mr. Tenzing Tharkay – he can translate for you and, I daresay, navigate anywhere in the world. I will give you his address... only, do not tell him I sent you.”

This last is a curious addition. “Very well,” Laurence agrees.

He follows Maden's directions easily enough and finds himself at a ramshackle set of apartments on the western end of the city. He taps on the third door while trying not to stare across the street. A pair of woman in colorful clothes – billowing trousers, pale chemises, short robes buttoned from throat to waist, and veils covering their faces - are crawling slowly across the dusty ground and running their hands along the dirt while chatting to each other.

“It will be a bad season if we have no rain,” says a voice in blessedly clear English. Laurence startles and looks up. Wide golden eyes shock him for an instant before a eagle screams in his face; he jolts away and looks down at the shorter man at the door. Eyes dark and nearly as keen watch him with amusement. After a pause where Laurence is too startled to speak, the stranger prompts, “ _Ê_ tes-vous venu à la bonne place?”

“Yes, I hope so – if you are Tenzing Tharkay,” Laurence says. Deciding impulsively to scorn the advice he has received, he adds, “Mr. Maden advised me to come here.”

Mr. Tharkay scowls at once. But he does not close the door. “I see,” he says, returning again to English. “Are you an associate of his?”

“Not as such. But I may be in need of a translator soon, and a guide.”

“Many men are. Where do you intend to go?”

“It is more what I intend to do.” Tharkay just waves his hand impatiently. But even as Laurence says the words a sudden truth unfolds – he knows how he will avenge Temeraire once and for all, finally and completely. The dragon that killed him is irrelevant; the formations and aviators and all the soldiers who march under the banners of France are just pawns in a greater game. “I need to find the French army, as they are fighting, and follow them in secrecy; I need to kill Napoleon Bonaparte.”

A small pause. Tharkay rests his weight briefly against the doorframe. His eagle shifts and twists its head to glare at Laurence.

“Well,” the man says at last. “I am rarely surprised; I will grant you that much. Come inside and we will talk further.”

* * *

 

Tharkay's lodgings are barren but well-kept. A temporary place, clearly. Maps and vials are spread out on a small desk on one side of the room; neat stacks of rope sit next to a line of knives, and in the room's corner an oaken stand rests. The eagle ruffles its feathers and launches itself away to flutter over to this more suitable perch as soon as they enter.

There are only two chairs. Business, perhaps, is not unusual in this space. “I am not a mercenary, however much I _could_ be,” Tharkay begins without ceremony. “Nor am I an assassin if that is what you are after.”

“I have no need of either,” Laurence says flatly.

“ - No, I suppose not.” Tharkay eyes him. “A personal matter, then?” Laurence does not answer. “I need to know something more if I will accept or decline this job and risk my head in a noose.”

“You cannot be surprised that people want Bonaparte dead.”

“Surprised? No. There are a million people who curse his name. I want to know why _you_ want him dead.”

“For no good reason,” Laurence admits lowly. He must admit this; he will not lie if he is to hire this man and drag him along on Laurence's foolish expedition. But Tharkay only waits. “ - My dragon Temeraire is dead. Slaughtered in a French attack. I will see the Emperor killed for inflicting this war upon the world.”

“Ah,” Tharkay murmurs. “ - Now, if you had told me you wanted to kill the Emperor of France for a noble cause I would have told you 'no', and likely sent my eagle at your head for stupidity. Vengeance, though, is something all men can understand; more than that it is something which might work. Even if I must wonder at the cause behind all of this... a _dragon_...”

“I do not ask you to understand.”

“You do if you ask me to help you. But I am not criticizing you, Mr. Laurence. It is simply more than most men would manage, to hold so much affection for a beast.”

“Temeraire was no beast.”

Tharkay eyes him. “No,” he says quietly. “I suppose not.”

Laurence pauses. “I will not say that I have not considered the benefits to England if Bonaparte dies – of course I have considered it,” he says. “But my motivations are utterly selfish; I freely confess that. Without Temeraire's fate I would never have left England.”

“Then we shall ensure he died for a good cause,” says Tharkay bluntly. Laurence turns away. “Yes, I will help you. If you are prepared, we may set out tomorrow morning. I have heard that the fighting should move South of the German states soon. I know the way.”

* * *

 

“I presume you know how to prepare for travel?” Tharkay does not wait for a response; he glances once at the bag slung over Laurence's shoulders and says, “Very well, let us be away.”

They start out North instead of West – they will want, Tharkay tells him, to cross up and around a series of lakes and inlets before turning firmly westward. As it happens, however, they do not even cross out of Istanbul before Laurence's attention is distracted.

They are just reaching the top of a series of stairs when two bearded men cross in front of them arguing viciously. One is gesturing wildly in the air; the other keeps pushing a young boy of only seven or eight years behind him. The child looks frightened.

“Bana yalan söyleme,” the first man says. “O benim - “

“Bu dur - !”

Tharkay, with a faint sigh, finishes scaling the stairs and starts to move around the pair. Laurence hesitates at the top of the steps. His instinct proves true; the first man draws out a knife from behind his back. The child yelps and clutches at his father.

“There is no need to make this violent,” Laurence protests carefully, raising his hands.

“Are you trying to reason with them in a language only you understand?” This from Tharkay. He stops a dozen paces away and starts to draw his sword.

The movement panics the violent stranger. He brandishes his knife in the air – Tharkey tenses – and then, whirling around, he abruptly shoves Laurence toward the stairs.

The child's shout splits the air as Laurence hits the first step and rolls. Taken off-guard, his ankle snaps at a bad angle and twists under his weight. Then his shoulder hits a corner and he's skidding down the dark stone corners. Luckily the steps are neither steep nor long; he halts a moment later, briefly stunned, and pushes himself around to look at the scene he's left.

Tharkay has disarmed the first man – sourly, his face twisted in a grimace – and the two bystanders are nowhere to be seen. “Kim olduğumu biliyorsun?” Tharkay asks. The man nods. “İyi. Gitmek. Geri gelme.”

The stranger shoots Laurence a dark look and then runs.

Tharkay sheaths his sword – and the stolen knife – and then looks down at Laurence. “You are going to be trouble, I think,” he says.

* * *

 

An hour later they are back at Tharkay's lodgings despite Laurence's protests – and, to be fair, this is mostly due to the fact that there are few other options. His own room at the Inn has likely been given away by now and his ankle needs to be set.

“I am rarely asked to play nursemaid, but I suppose it is your money,” Tharkay says as he handles the bandages deftly. His pack contains an astonishing amount of supplies, but the tiny apartment is even better-equipped. Laurence wonders how often he uses the place; if he plans to travel, surely it cannot be a permanent dwelling? “Still, I hope you are not usually so unlucky. You will not kill a genius of Bonaparte's caliber by tripping over him in a dark alley.”

Getting a wound through battle is no cause for embarassment. Getting wounded in a streetside fluke cannot be rationalized in quite the same way. “You have my apologies,” he says, resigned. “I suppose I shall not need your services after all. My task is to be delayed, it seems.”

Tharkay pauses in his movements. “But you do intend to pursue Bonaparte nevertheless – eventually?” he persists.

This line of questioning baffles Laurence. “Of course,” he says.

“You are injured.”

“It will heal.”

Tharkay looks frustrated. “You _cannot_ possibly succeed.”

“Then I shall die trying.” Laurence frowns. “Why are you arguing about this now?”

Tharkay leans back. “ - You strike me less and less as a madman as you speak; I cannot conceive of why you would try to kill Bonaparte if you were sane, however.”

Laurence touches the chain on his neck. “I have told you my reasons.”

“Yes.” Tharkay stands. “ - Well. If you will heal quickly – before this war ends and we are dead anyway, I mean – you should be wise enough not to exert yourself. Stay here. I will get one of the local doctors to check that leg as you recover.”

Laurence must be misunderstanding. “I beg your pardon. What do you - “

“I would be most remiss if my employer died under my watch,” Tharkay says briskly. “It is the sort of thing that reflects badly on one; now, pray excuse me. I need to make new arrangements if we will be remaining here for the forseeable future.”

With that, Tharkay grabs up a bag and a discreet knife from the wall and ducks out the door. Laurence is left staring at the exit with a faint feeling of confusion.

“Oh dear,” he says at last.

* * *

 

Istanbul tends to be a little warmer and drier than England, perhaps, but not by much. As a seaside city it remains temperate and windy. Laurence has no choice but to recline – glaring at his recalcitrant ankle – as the apartment's tiny box windows allow the only respite from the day's stuffiness. Despite the temptation of freedom Tharkay's eagle – her name, apparently, is Koseli – stays inside and watches Laurence with baleful amber eyes.

“She is very well trained,” Tharkay tells him. “I use her for hunting.” He does not say what he hunts, though.

Tharkay is a mystery himself. Laurence originally had no thoughts whatsoever about the man, and no intentions of getting to know him beyond the necessary. Tharkay was a means to an end and nothing else. Now, forced reluctantly to rely on the man's rather perplexing goodwill, he is rather harder to ignore.

And, also, more confusing.

“I beg your pardon,” Laurence finally has to say on the third day. Tharkay pauses from where he is tying a leather cord around the foot of the eagle. His frustration and curiosity, both, can no longer be allayed. “But I do not in the least understand what you intend to do – I cannot stay here for the time it will take my ankle to heal.”

“You can hardly go anywhere else,” Tharkay says reasonably. “Though I believe the woodsman down the road should be done with the crutches soon, which will be good for you.”

“I am grateful to the woodsman,” Laurence says flatly. “I would still ask you to explain yourself.”

“Are you always this difficult when someone helps you?”

“Only when I suspect their motives.”

“That is wise,” Tharkay concedes. “You are curious; I am a man with little to do but investigate curiousities, when I wish it. You may consider that a peculiarity of mine, if a dangerous one.”

“I am not sure I should like being a curiosity.”

Tharkay shrugs. “I do not ask you to like it; decide for yourself if it is dangerous, instead. That is all that matters.”

He takes the eagle when he leaves and returns, in the evening, with the promised set of crutches. Laurence accepts them almost with resignation. He is glad at the opportunity to leave the apartment, but skeptical of his own ability to do so.

Tharkay notices. “Shall we go for a walk tonight?” he suggests, and so Laurence has no choice but to agree.

It is a slow procession, though luckily they walk only a short distance. The crutches are sturdy oak and hit the ground solidly with each step. They also dig mercilessly into his arms.

They pass colorful gardens, shops closed for the night, a quiet house with candles glowing in all the windows and a mosque with a painted glass door. Laurence briefly regrets his inability with the native language.

“How do you intend to kill a man that half of Europe wants dead?” asks Tharkay very suddenly. His words ring in the growing darkness, drop, and sink. No one is around to catch the sudden sobriety. “You are not the first to try, so I hope you have a plan.”

“Yes,” Laurence says. His steps are becoming more difficult, but he swallows back the pain and tries to breathe evenly when he answers. “I will find him and challenge him for the suffering he has caused. I will need to be fully healthy again - “

Tharkay stops abruptly. Laurence, too, has to stop. “I suppose you _are_ mad,” Tharkay says, baffled. “You cannot think he will fight you one on one? Alone, without guards or soldiers?”

“If he has honor - “

“I thought you planned to murder him,” Tharkay says. “Not _duel_ him, you fool.”

“That would be dishonorable - “

“Hang honor when it kills you; and you will die,” Tharkay adds. “A 'dishonorable'... _Mr. Laurence._ It cannot be done.”

“Anyone,” Laurence says, “Who has done so much for me needs not call me _Mister._ William or Laurence shall do.”

“How very nice,” Tharkay says. “Very well, Laurence, I will remember your name at your funeral.”

Laurence sighs.

Tharkay starts walking again - faster. Laurence struggles to keep pace. “What will you do when he refuses your challenge?” he asks.

“I do not see how he - “

“What,” Tharkay repeats, “Will you do?”

Laurence exhales. “I will not fight a man in dishonor. I must – I must find some way. Some method of claiming proper retribution.”

“Do not tell me you have never killed a man before – or more, that you have never killed in cold blood. An officer keeps some prettiness in his duties, but never a soldier.”

“...I can say neither of those things.” Laurence reaches up again, unconsciously, to touch the cold link of gold around his throat. “ - But I will not plan a murder with malice and forethought. There must be some boundaries.”

“I suppose you cannot make your grand plan too easy,” says Tharkay ironically. They have nearly returned at last. “ - Very well. But I do hope, Laurence, that you understand what you are doing.”

* * *

 

Laurence does not understand what he is doing.

The next week Tharkay walks with him to the harbor; the sea is still a familiar call and the sails drifting across the water fill Laurence with an ache in his chest. He will never be a sailor again. He knows this with a certainty that cannot be rationalized but must be accepted. The sea is gone, and so too is the sky; only the middle-ground remains, and the endless miles of dirt and dust to choke him.

“This place is stunning in the autumn, and moreso when the hours shorten and you can view the sun set all the earlier.”

“Sunsets on the water always look the same when you have seen a few dozen,” Laurence lies. He turns from the glittering Marmara Sea. “I suppose you have traveled much?”

Tharkay looks at him as they move away. “All over the world,” he says. “ - Will you tell me about Temeraire?”

Laurence means to say no. It would make sense to say no.

What he actually says, is:

“He was hatched on the sea. In a ship – my ship, before I ever meant to become his captain.” Seagulls scream in the sky, distant and petty. “He wanted to know everything – to know about England, France, the whole history of the world. I read to him in Latin and he knew French better than I ever have; but when he wanted to talk to the sailors they denied him. He only ever wanted to be friends with the world, and they always denied him.”

“That is not a strange thing.”

“I arranged a concert for him once – if he were human he would have attended a hundred, I think. He loved the music. The violinists even overcame their fear, they were so delighted by his enthusiasm. But he was not human, and they could not play special concerts for dragons every week; that is not fair,” he says suddenly. “And it is not right that dragons must die for us, for humans they love, and receive nothing - “

Tharkay says nothing for a moment. “I have met many dragons, of course. I spent the most time with a few wild clans up in Turkmenistan – mostly against my will, you see. They were utter brigands and rogues bent on stealing the local cattle. Initially, I contrived to kill a few of them and scare off the rest.”

Laurence stiffens.

“I watched them,” Tharkay continues, “As any hunter would; I thought to spear the small ones in their sleep, if I dared, and mayhaps the others would flee from superstition. It was a foolish idea, I realize now – for more than one reason. But I was young. And as I listened, I heard them hissing and babbling at each other, and eventually I recognized patterns; not just in their movements, you see, but in their speech. It was a speech all their own, a purely draconic speech. And that was when I knew I could not kill them.”

“How would a feral dragon know to avoid property?” Laurence says dully.

“It would not, of course,” Tharkay says. “I tried to explain the concept when I learned more of their tongue – the dragons found me a bit amusing when I introduced myself, I think. But they were not interested in anything human. Why would they be? And it turned out the town had attacked them first, anyway; so then I wiped my hands of the matter.”

A pause.

“It is hard for me to imagine a dragon interested in music and poetry, songs, art,” Tharkay says. “But I suppose most men hold no love for great beauty, either; that is no strange thing.”

They are back in the city proper now and approaching the apartment. The buildings are becoming more decrepit – the colors bland, the windows dull and tinted, shingles falling off the roofs nearby. They stop in front of the door and Tharkay looks at him.

“Good night, Laurence,” he says.

Above them the sky wheels black and silent.

* * *

 

Tharkay disappears at odd hours – sometimes at midday, for only an instant, before stepping back through the door as though he had never vanished; other times he will not return until midnight; later he will simply reappear when Laurence awakens in the morning. At other points Laurence looks around to see Tharkay in the same spot, and only suspects that he has left by the slight rearrangement of maps, quills, books.

He does not ask questions. He does not know that he cares for the answers.

Whatever odd habits Tharkay might possess, he seems invested in Laurence's recovery. The old man that comes to check his leg speaks a dialect Laurence cannot hope to understand – though he does catch a few words by now, like _Stay_ and _No_ and _Idiot –_ and their walks increase in distance as it becomes more prudent. Laurence is still frustrated.

“We can plan our trip,” Tharkay suggests. “There is little else to do, productively.”

So they plan. Tharkay swears up and down that the latest sources all point to Prussia as the next warzone, and Laurence has no reason not to believe him. Tharkay knows his routes well and, with an estimated starting-date, they plot out an arrival of October 1st in Prussia with over a month of walking in-between. “It is your money,” Tharkay says again when this is decided.

But the words lack rancor.

The scent of fresh bread infiltrates the street every morning before the sun rises. Laurence rises three weeks into his convalescence, hobbling out of the empty apartment alone, and seeks the source. He finds the bakery a block away and, somehow unsurprisingly, Tharkay.

The man tosses a roll at his face. “I hope you are less slow when we're hunting the French,” he says.

* * *

 

Tharkay reads by a dim lantern at night; he does this silently. Sometimes Laurence lies awake and imagines the words anyway – words to accompany texts no man would likely read through soft dusk on Istanbul's coast with rain drizzling over the windows. The secrets of mathematics teased out through laborious Latin, the minutiae of a plant's heritage divulged and explored in a scientific treatise.

“Am I bothering you?” Tharkay says one night.

“No,” Laurence says. “ - Never, my dear.”

* * *

 

A group of woman cluster together and walk quicker as Laurence passes. He can hardly blame them; despite his best efforts his clothes have not fared well through travel, and all replacements still appeared shabby and odd. Here, in this city especially, he looks suspicious. Out of place.

Tharkay waits by one of the fountains in the square. “No issues?” he asks stiffly.

“No,” Laurence says. “Though he was surprised I am still in the city. I beg your pardon, and you should feel not the slightest inclination to divulge anything which brings you any discomfort, however - “

“Sometimes I do not know how you find the time to say anything,” Tharkay says wearily.

“ - However,” Laurence says, “May I ask why you will not talk to Mr. Maden?”

Laurence himself has visited the Jewish banker again in preparation of their leaving; also, he was able to thank the man for introducing him to Tharkay at all. He did not quite understand the man's reluctance to speak when Tharkay was mentioned, though.

“...I would not say I have any particular issues with Mr. Maden,” Tharkay says. “Indeed I consider him a friend.”

“Then why - “

“I knew his daughter. A woman – an exceptional woman - named Sara... She is getting married soon, and I do wish her well.” A pause. “She gave me Kolissa, years ago.”

Laurence stops. “I see,” he says. Tharkay scowls toward the sky and says nothing. “I knew someone - Edith – who may have had similarities to this Sara.” At that, at least, he gets a glance. “She married recently and I am told has a son – but, I confess, while I wish her the best of happiness I do not think I will ever look at her husband with anything but condescension.”

Tharkay's lips twitch. “Ah, pettiness – the balm of all souls,” he says. “I am glad you have some flaws, Will; it makes the rest of us feel much better, I think. Or at least me. Come, then, it is getting dark.”

* * *

 

“Have you always traveled alone?”

The eagle drifts on outstretched wings, circling lower in lazy spirals as the sun sears a path through the midday sky. Laurence, sitting at the foot of a tree, touches his healing ankle and grimaces at the lingering pain; Tharkay remains facing away from him.

“I do not think of myself as alone,” he says at last. “There are people enough in the world. Koseli! Here - “ he whistles sharply and the eagle twirls around.

Laurence waits while the bird dives for Tharkay's shoulder. “That is not an answer.”

Koseli accepts a gobbet of meat and tilts back her head to swallow it down. “Other people can make stupid choices,” says Tharkay. “Like trying to kill Emperors in duels, for example.”

Laurence leans his head against the tree. “Tenzing - “

Tharkay tosses the eagle into the air. She takes off with a powerful stroke of her wings and darts into the air. “Do not try to placate me like a child, or a fool; _this,_ Laurence, is why I - “ he stops suddenly, spins around, and walks several paces away. Stops again. Walks back. Paces back and forth with increasing agitation.

“It was not my intention to cause you any distress,” Laurence says.

“No. No, I suppose you think you will die and no one will miss you,” Tharkay says. “ - I have thought that often enough. I am familiar with the idea.”

At that, Laurence braces himself against the tree and struggles to stand. The sound is enough that Tharkay turns but does not help him. “Do not say that.”

“I should leave you here,” Tharkay says grimly, “As soon as that ankle is healed... or just lead you to China instead, perhaps.”

“It will not work. I will find Bonaparte. I will find him if I must search for twenty years.”

“I know you will, damn you!” Tharkay bursts. “I have never met anyone so – ridiculously _frustrating,_ Laurence - “ and, beyond words, he grasps Laurence by the coat and kisses him.

Laurence kisses him back desperately, pulls away, and can only say, “This changes nothing of my plans.”

“Why would I expect that?” Tharkay snaps, “It would nearly be logical - “ And he pulls Laurence back again, pressing together their torsos and hips in one smooth motion.

Overhead the eagle continues to circle. As long as they understand one another, then.

* * *

 

Tharkay shoves his ankle with perhaps too much force. “I suppose you are ready,” he says grudgingly. “ - If the walk will not prove too strenuous - “

“I shall certainly recover more as we go,” Laurence says patiently, “And be well-prepared by the time we meet any soldiers; I daresay I do not expect to find any of Bonaparte's men until we leave this country, at least. You are trying to delay, Tenzing.”

“I am encouraging you to be sensible,” Tharkay tells him. “But on your head, so be it.”

Tharkay has made his own arrangements concerning the place – a temporary dwelling only, he's explained cryptically – and they set out with little delay near the end of August. It is strange to leave the blue waters of Marmara behind. Laurence has followed the ocean for more than half a year by land, and for half a life before that as a sailor.

But in the end, when Tharkay looks at him, he touches the chain around his neck and walks on. There are greater specters looming over him now – and greater duties.

* * *

 

“When I have killed the Emperor,” Laurence says, arm wrapped carefully over Tharkay's scarred frame, “Perhaps I will return to Istanbul and finally learn that language. Or mayhaps I might travel back to Egypt or Africa and explore the cities properly this time.”

They both know, of course, that whether he succeeds or fails Bonaparte's soldiers will surely hunt him to the ends of the earth and put him under a firing squad.

“I daresay you will need a guide,” Tharkay says. “And a translator – your accent is still atrocious, Laurence.”

* * *

 

Prussia is in turmoil when they reach the border; still, they cross with almost alarming ease as soon as Tharkay begins to babble some story to the border guards, in highly-accented German, about needing to visit their poor sick family.

Apparently the guards question how they're related; Tharkay starts to raise his voice, speaking louder and with a thicker accent until the guards relent and practically shove them across.

“I suppose I do not look Prussian, but not French enough to be a threat,” Tharkay says dryly once they pass. Laurence is somehow certain that Tharkay can speak one or more German dialects with perfection. “Of course, no one ever assumes I am English, either; that is my advantage.”

“And what of me?” Laurence asks, puzzled.

“Why, you are my mute and dumb cousin-by-marriage,” Tharkay says. “Do be quiet again if they approach us, it will be quite awkward to explain your miraculous recovery.”

The Prussian army – or, at least, one significant mass of it – is marching Eastward with to match the raze of the French soldiers while others gather toward Leipzig. The Russians have apparently become French allies for this battle, which makes tactics all the more unpredictable.

Until they find a better source of information it is not difficult to tail along near the end of the army – all volunteers are welcome and the camp has accumulated a number of non-military hanger-ons already. And unlike many of these, Tharkay and Laurence actually have swords and pistols.

Tharkay keeps reaching down to touch the hilt of his sword as though ensuring it's still there. “I suppose this, at least, must seem normal to you.”

“Not at all,” Laurence says. “I am not accustomed to marching over land – not with an army of any sort.” Though this is a sad army, indeed.

And they have no reliable information, still. Laurence is no officer here, no one of note with the means to demand information or warrant it. Only through a slow dispersal do they learn that the officers expect to find a large force of enemies near Jena.

Laurence somehow doesn't expect to see the dragons.

They come over the army in all shapes and sizes – tiny red Mauerfuchs darting between the clouds like splashes of blood, mottled yellow Berghexe flickering everywhere with their grim loads of cannons and guns. At a distance Laurence could almost believe the latter are the ubiquitous Yellow Reapers, their brighter British counterparts, and his chest aches.

In the morning he sees Papillion Noirs and Petit Chevaliers on the horizon. These are not Prussian breeds.

Laurence and Tharkay line up at the tail end of the army. “Do not die before you even find Napoleon,” Tharkay says.

Laurence makes no promises.

* * *

 

The fighting tapers off after an hour – or, rather, the bulk of it is redirected toward another section of the army, which gives Tharkay and Laurence a moment to breathe without a threat of being shot. Laurence has to search the nearby men – and corpses – for nearly two minutes before he catches sight of Tharkay slumped on the outskirts of the ranks, leaning on his sword unprofessionally. His face is sprayed with blood, but it doesn't seem to be his own.

He looks up and sighs when Laurence approaches. “This is not going well – we should leave before the army is taken prisoner.”

“Leave?”

“They will retreat soon if they have any sense; this is not our fight, Laurence.”

The nearest soldiers are pulling away under the shouted orders of their officers. The battle is moving. “Surely we cannot - “

“This is _not our fight,”_ Tharkay repeats. “You are no longer an officer – or even a soldier. You have no obligation to these men, and this is not England. Do you have a mission or no?”

Koseli drops down out of the sky and alights onto Tharkay's shoulder. Her beak is bloodied with the dubious spoils of war; Laurence tries not to think on that too long. “Very well,” he says tiredly. “ - But we should keep track of the French army.”

“Napoleon is not in this group, I think, so no matter.” Tharkay waves his hand with disgust. “But as you like.”

They start to move away slowly. The distant metal din of swords and the thundershot of guns fades to a dull roar. It feels strange to flee a fight – but then, they have another goal. A greater one.

However selfish it might be.

Tharkay pulls out his pistol. “Laurence,” he says. Laurence is alarmed to see he's swaying.

“Are you injured?” he demands. “Why did you not - ?”

But Tharkay waves him to silence and levels the gun. Laurence's has lost his own gun, but he echoes the movement by drawing his own sword and listening carefully. Ahead of them comes the sounds of creaking branches and muffled footsteps; then a French soldier bursts out of the woods.

Tharkay fires and misses badly. He swears and drops the gun. Overhead, Koseli drops like a stone and dives at the head of the French private. The man curses and waves his own gun in the air.

Laurence runs forward just as the private thrusts his arm forward and shoots.

Koseli works as a perfect distraction. His sword cuts through the foreigner's blue coat like paper; blood blooms around the hilt and Laurence jerks back his hand without delicacy. The man slumps to the ground with his arms twitching.

The Frenchman – nameless, rankless – stares up at Laurence with blood gaping out his mouth. As the last breath rattles from his throat, he gasps, “Vive l'Empereur!”

Laurence turns around to see where the man's shot went.

Tharkay's body is silent and still on the ground. The eagle does not come back, and Laurence buries him with only a sword and compass as markers.

And a tiny gold chain.

* * *

 

_“I suppose you think you will die and no one will miss you. I have thought that often enough...”_

There is no one left to care that Laurence detaches entirely from the army and walks, aimless and wandering, through miles of woods. He has seen soldiers and comrades die before, but he is tired. Temeraire was no patriot of England; Tharkay, too, fought only for him. Before Laurence could say that death in the line of duty was a grievous but noble thing. Now it just seems useless.

He halts at last near the top of a hill in the evening; his legs are ready to fail. With enough presence of mind to remain unseen he sits in a cluster of bushes and looks for the first hints of the moon slivering through the clouds. He touches his neck and finds nothing there.

He lays on the ground and has no dreams.

“Nous devrions revenir, Seigneur.”

A horse snorts. Laurence blinks awake. Brambles cover his vision, but when he shifts just slightly two dark war-mounts come into view – and upon them two clearly French riders.

“Je dois voir le terrain. Cessez de vous inquiéter.”

“Mais, mon Empereur - “

Laurence stiffens.

He looks for the speaker of these words – and then, with cold hope, turns toward the unremarkable figure on the left. Not as short as the rumors say – not as handsome, not as fearsome. But there's a cold, calculating look to the man who raises a seeing-glass to his eye at the top of that hill to overlook the terrain below. “Je vais avoir besoin d'envoyer un messager á Davout, peut-être, pour le déplacement de ses forces...”

Laurence barely dares believe his fortune. He could show himself now, before the Emperor, and demand his duel. This is the chance he has desired – the chance he has chased across half of Europe to find.

The chance Tharkay, now, has also died for...

“Mon Empereur,” the aide implores again.

Slowly, slowly, Laurence pulls out his pistol. The moon is nearly full – Napoleon Bonaparte's features are thrown into sharp relief when he turns and pockets his spyglass. When Laurence readies the gun his head turns, just slightly, as though he might have heard something.

“Oui, peut-être que vous avez raison...”

Laurence aims.

He shoots.

 


End file.
